


O Sugar Mine

by Agent_24



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, joker's wild spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-01-16 03:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18513154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: A small collection of various and unrelated Shin/Drift drabbles





	1. Trip Headfirst

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-reveal, inspired by a friend's tweet <3

Shin is reeling. 

As he thinks it all through, he feels it important — perhaps detrimental to his sanity — to note that he did not plan this. It was not his intent to be caught here, naked and warm in a strange bed with a man he has not seen in centuries. It was not his purpose to track the rumors of a man gathering motes of Dark to a hotel room on the outskirts of the City.

Hope groans softly in contentment and stretches himself out under the covers. Blue eyes peer at Shin from under full lashes, hazy with lingering desire. 

It sends goosebumps over Shin's arms. 

"Was a good time," Hope says, mouth curled up at the corner. He's pleased. Shin can  _ feel _ how pleased he is, sticky between his legs. Some sudden feeling of panic blooms in his chest.

"Yeah," he rasped. He wants to say something else. His tongue catches in his mouth. 

Hope sits up on his elbow and tilts his head. "You liked it?" he asks, a curious note to his voice. 

Shin is frozen, face still pressed into the pillows. He can't say how much he liked it. He can't say how it was divine. He can't say how being pressed beneath Hope's body and encased in his arms, how dragging nails over his back and tasting his skin, his sweat, all felt like some hundred-year-old fantasy come to life. 

He says, "It was great. Really. Got some tension out of my shoulders."

Hope nods, satisfied. Shin can't keep that name out of his mind. The man neglected to give him a proper moniker during their introduction beyond  _ a drifter,  _ but Shin can't help the way it echoes in his mind,  _ Hope Hope Hope Hope. _ Hope leans over him again, nosing his way under Shin's jaw to press a kiss there. Shin feels the smallest twinge of pain as Hope's teeth graze over a hickey. 

"You got someplace to be, darlin'?" Hope asks beneath his ear. 

Shin sits up, and Hope withdraws in surprise. "I do," Shin says, quick. He does not. "I — got a job to get to. Better get moving." 

Hope frowns. "Alright," he says. "Won't keep you."

Shin nods abruptly. He can't breathe. He jumps up without another word and almost runs to the shower to wash the slick from his thighs. 

Hope is still lounging in bed when Shin returns, dressed, and his eyes flit over Shin's body in hungry appreciation. Shin wills himself to say something, anything, to indicate that this won't be a regular thing. All he manages is a borderline desperate, "Meet me again, sometime."

Hope grins; a winner's smile. "Sure," he says, then teases,  _ "Renegade." _

Shin clips his gun belt around his waist and tears out the door. 


	2. V is for Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An expansion on one of my twitfics, the prompt of which was 'tears'.

Shin tucks his face into Drifter's throat, arms around his shoulders. That will terrify Drifter in the morning, he thinks: the knowledge that Shin Malphur had arms around him.

Drifter stills when he feels dampness against his neck, then lurches back like Shin burned him. Blue eyes focus on Shin's face — they didn't have to be so goddamn  _ pretty _ — and Shin, ironically, feels trapped.

“You're crying,” Drifter says dumbly.

Shin doesn't know what to say to that. He blinks, hoping to stop tears from welling up, but all it does is make them spill. 

“I hurt you?” Drifter asks, looking him over, a faint hint of urgency in his voice.

Shin feels his bottom lip waver and grits his teeth to stop it. He drops his gaze, wishes he  could focus on Drifter's body slotted between his legs, on the sheen of sweat over his skin, on the faint smell of leather and gun oil. He wants to commit this to memory. 

“No,” he manages, watery. “No, you're perfect.”

Drifter looks thrown. “Renegade —” 

“I'm alright,” Shin insists. It's not a lie. Mostly.

Drifter's doubt lays plain on his face. Shin traces his eyes over those features, the high cheekbones, the scars, the wild brows, the full lips. Drifter asks, “What's wrong with you, then?” 

“Drifter,” Shin breathes out, throat tight, “Please don't ask me any more questions.”

Drifter stares at him. Shin prays he won't make any guesses. He just wants to stay here a moment longer, in peace, uninterrupted and warm and held.

Drifter pulls out. Shin lets out a quiet hiss of breath, squirming; Drifter nudges him over on the tiny cot and settles at his side. Shin fits snug against him, and the cold air of the Derelict only bleeds in a little. He hides his face against Drifter's chest, curls fingers against Drifter's ribs, and Drifter's hands settle against his back. 

Shin exhales shakily and sobs silently, just once.

Drifter dozes off after a while. Shin carefully slips from his arms and leaves him to sleep. He puts the letter on Drifter's little worktable. 

He doesn't sign it.


	3. Dazzled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-reveal #2

Shin takes his time waking up and pays for it with stiff muscles. The familiar creaks of the Derelict nearly lull him back to sleep, but the equally familiar cold is starting to seep through the blankets. 

Cold means Drifter’s been up for a while. Shin pries his eyes open, missing their combined warmth, and finds Drifter at his worktable. He groans and stretches himself out by way of greeting, delighted when Drifter doesn’t jump, just glances over his shoulder briefly before he turns back to his work. 

“You’re gonna make me late for my matches,” Drifter says. 

“Mm,” Shin says, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “Could’ve woke me up.” 

Drifter only makes a noncommittal noise in reply. Shin shivers without the blankets wrapped around him and picks his shirt up from the floor. “What’re you workin’ on?” he asks, pulling it over his head. 

“Cannon improvements,” Drifter mutters, resting his chin on his hand while he’s deep in thought. 

Shin rises and presses closer in the already cramped space. Drifter spares him another glance. On the table is a sketch of a Dark Age gun labeled ‘Spare Rations’. It’s another gun with holes in the barrel. Shin’s chest nearly bursts with fondness.

“Pretty,” he compliments, minding the minute shift of Drifter’s shoulders. “For our Guardian?” 

_ “My _ Guardian,” Drifter corrects. “And if she wants it over Trust, sure.” A pause, then, “Or Malfeasance.” 

Shin ignores the jab. Instead, he wonders if Drifter doesn’t mention The Last Word on purpose, and if it is on purpose, he wonders if it’s out of spite or some measure of gloating. He wonders if the Guardian (theirs, he wants to insist) has touched his gun since his last letters. 

“She’ll like it,” Shin says. It’s probably true. “You mind if I shower before I head out?” 

Drifter tilts his head back to grin up at him. “Not gonna drag me down for another romp?” he asks, all teeth. 

“You got matches soon,” Shin reminds, even though he’s sorely tempted, and almost smiles when Drifter pouts. 

Shin goes to shower, brush his teeth, and haphazardly comb fingers through his bedhead. He’s meeting with Teben today, to convince him that it’s best not to engage with the Praxic Order for now. He dresses in Vale’s clothes, simple and light armor in blacks and grays and dull reds. 

“That shader looks like shit on you,” Drifter says when Shin returns to the crate with his helmet tucked under his arm (Shin is still hesitant to call it a room; it’s barely a living space, but it’s cozy, and it’s...it’s not  _ theirs, _ but he likes to imagine it is). 

“I guess you like it better when I wear green?” Shin asks, stooping to pick up his clothes from the day before. 

“Brings out your eyes,” Drifter drawls, sarcastic, but Shin feels his cheeks grow warm about it anyway.

“I thought you said I was gonna make you late,” Shin replies, changing the subject. He transmats his dirty clothes back to his inventory, then pauses just outside the crate’s opening, boots crunching in the snow. 

Drifter leans back in his chair, watching him linger. “You are,” he says after a moment, though not terribly urgently. “What, you hoping for a goodbye kiss?” 

Shin, despite himself, perks up. It’d seemed far enough out of the realm of possibility that he hadn’t really been considering it, but if Drifter’s offering — 

“Can I?” he asks. 

Drifter’s brows nearly shoot into his hairline, blue eyes wide like he hadn’t expected Shin to take the question seriously. “You kiddin'?” 

Shin flushes and wishes he’d put his helmet on already. Drifter stares at him a little longer, then murmurs “...Hell,” under his breath. 

Something tugs unpleasantly in Shin’s chest. He starts, “I’ll just —” 

“C’mere, quickdraw,” Drifter interrupts, though he’s suddenly avoiding Shin’s eyes. 

Shin brightens, maybe literally; his armor feels too warm. He returns to Drifter’s side, eager about it, and Drifter ducks his chin (is he bashful? Shin’s chest swells again), then looks up at him through his lashes. Shin wonders if Drifter knows how pretty that makes him look, and if he’s doing it on purpose. 

Shin bends over Drifter’s chair for his kiss. He intends for it to be quick, since his pounding heart won’t let him gracefully ask for more, but Drifter hooks fingers into his chest piece, yanks him down, and kisses him deep. 

Shin’s brain trips. He melts into it, a needy little sound slipping when Drifter’s tongue slides against his bottom lip, heat stirring in his belly when Drifter licks between his teeth. Drifter slows it down after a moment, reduces it to little more than open-mouthed presses of lips, and Shin can only just barely breathe — 

“You coming back tonight?” Drifter asks, withdrawing a little. 

“Uh huh,” Shin manages eloquently. 

Drifter’s staring at him again, disbelieving. Shin wonders if he has a stupid look on his face. Drifter releases his armor, and Shin feels like he might stumble without the anchor, feels like he could just up and float away into the stars. 

“Good,” Drifter says after a moment. “Don’t get shot.” 

“Okay,” Shin rasps, and transmats out before he can embarrass himself further. 

If he thinks about that kiss all day (if he daydreams a little while Teben voices his worries) then it’s only because he’s a fool, and he knows it, or at least that’s the reason he’ll go with until he can admit to something heavier out loud. 


	4. H is for Pipe Dream

The coin falls back to Drifter's palm and bounces off his glove. The clang against the floor is deafening in the little cramped alleyway. Shin nearly flinches, bites his lip and lets out a shaky sigh before he stoops down to pick it up. It's the Hive coin.

Shin scowls at it and drops it on Drifter's little work table before he turns to the man himself and softens. For once, Drifter's got him beat when it comes to dark circles. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week. Worse than his apparent exhaustion is his expression; blank, a little slack-jawed, empty. Shin waves a hand in front of Drifter's eyes and exhales when they don't follow the motion.

Shin has only witnessed Drifter having a vision one other time. It's just as terrifying now as it was then.

Shin nudges a kiss against his cheek and waits with him.

Drifter's gone maybe two minutes; the Nine's Emissary isn't one for many words, or so Shin's been told. Awareness returns to Drifter's eyes in a rush, and he gasps out, lurches forward and nearly stumbles over junk piled up and overflowing from crates.

“Easy,” Shin soothes, holding an arm out to steady him.

“Where is it?” Drifter rasps, hands patting all over his clothes.

“Where's what?”

“The coin!” Drifter hisses.

Shin snatches it up off the table and offers it to him. Drifter takes it with a shaking hand and flips it over and back again, then twice more, like he's expecting to find something he shouldn't.

“What are you looking for?” Shin asks.

“The —” Drifter pauses, distressed. He looks pale as a sheet. He tries to roll the coin over his knuckles and fumbles, cursing and catching it before it clammers to the floor again. “A ship,” he says finally, swallowing. “There was a ship on my coin. From a fleet of Dark.”

Shin pries his eyes from Drifter’s hands to meet his gaze. “A fleet?”

“Yeah.”  

A fleet. “Shit,” Shin murmurs. “So...what, the Awoken Queen fails?”

“I...don’t know,” Drifter admits, brows knitting. He squeezes the coin in his hand so hard that the leather of his glove squeaks. “Fuck. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. So long as Gambit keeps running smooth, we’ll be fine.”

 _We._ Shin’s barely through a thought about the rest of the system before the word catches up to him. “We,” he says quietly.

Drifter stops short, rolling the coin over his knuckles and back into his palm. “Yeah,” he says after a missed beat. “Yeah, I thought…”

Shin’s throat goes tight. “Drifter,” he murmurs.

“Hear me out,” Drifter says sharply with some faint, desperate note in his voice. “I got space now. Annex is bigger than this skinny little hallway. And…I got some seats saved for when this all blows up in our faces. I figure —”

“You know I can’t,” Shin says, weak. It’s not fair. Drifter knows that’s not fair to ask.

“Why not?”

“You know damn well why not.”

“No, I don’t,” Drifter snaps. “Look, this whole…” he waves his hand in the air, erratic, “…all this shit with the Dredgens, you don’t have to keep on with it. Let Bane run that mess. You wanna draw out folks who’d abuse the dark, then...then _fine,_ but Prime’s gonna be your best bet for that. You don’t have to —”

“Drifter,” Shin interrupts. Drifter stops. Shin chews his bottom lip, exhales, turns to lean against the worktable. “This isn’t about whether or not I want to go with you,” he says, gathering himself. He rubs at his ear. _The shape of the knife is [farewell]._ “I can’t just...let myself be unmade.”

There is a long, trembling kind of silence; long because they have reached some terrible stalemate and trembling because Drifter’s hands are shaking. Shin’s chest aches like he’s been shot.

Drifter blurts, “I’ll kill you.”

Shin looks up sharply. Drifter looks sick, between the visible way his throat tightens, the knit of his brows and the anxious press of his lips. Shin asks, a whisper, “What?”

“I’ll kill you,” Drifter repeats. There’s a strain in his voice. “You keep...you use Gambit to keep walkin’ that line and if you tip too far into the Dark, I’ll kill you.”

Shin is already shaking his head. His heart hammers in his chest. His body burns hot. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You ain’t askin’,” Drifter says. “I’m offerin’. You walk off the deep end and start ravin’ about Hive rituals or wipin’ some shitty little village off the map and I’ll bring you down myself. No crews. My hand.”

For a moment, Shin is left speechless. He has never been offered an out before. He has never wanted an out before this man, before giving up his gun and his hunt, before learning to see the grey. And he knows — better than anyone, he knows — what it means for Drifter to offer him this.

No crews with Malfeasance in hand. No chosen Guardian backing him up. A clean, quick death at Drifter’s hand alone.

There are worse ways to go, if it comes down to it.

He thinks about how the shape of Drifter’s knife is _[hope]._ His eyes flit over Drifter’s face, over his ears to check for blood. He swallows; he asks, “You know what you’re askin’ me?”

It’s a fool question. Drifter still looks nauseous about it all. He has never looked so stricken when proposing one of their many deals in the past. Drifter answers, “I know better than to ask for somethin’ I don’t understand.”

Shin’s heart lurches. “And you’re sure about it.”

“I didn’t survive this long by —”

“Being indecisive, I know,” Shin manages. He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something. He cannot remember a time when he felt this caught. He cannot recall a time when he felt so willing to be trapped, captured, tied down.

He sidles closer, brushes fingers over Drifter’s wrist. The coin in Drifter’s palm vanished sometime when Shin wasn’t looking. He presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes.

Drifter exhales a slow, wavering sigh.


	5. Overworked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Renegade reveal. An old response to a curiouscat o/

"You're dead on your feet," the Renegade murmurs in his ear.  
  
Drifter nearly jumps out of his skin. Fuck. He'd forgotten to close the damn gate again.  
  
The lax way the Renegade stands might imply he's amused. Drifter can't tell; he can barely see straight. Gun pieces are strewn across his work table, not put together in any way that appears coherent, and his sketches and notes keep running off lines into miserable scribbles from when he kept dozing off with a pencil in his hand.  
  
"If you're here to fuck," Drifter says, and then, because he doesn't want to admit that he has no energy to get it up, continues, "I got work to do."  
  
The Renegade puts a hand on Drifter's desk, leaning over it to check his notes. Drifter fights an old-rooted urge to cover them up. "These don't make any sense," the Renegade says. There's laughter in his voice.  
  
Drifter squints. For a second, it looks like there's two men standing next to him. He blinks and shakes his head, then says, "I gotta --"  
  
"Go to bed," the Renegade finishes. "Come on."  
  
Drifter opens his mouth to object, except the Renegade has already bent to grab him around the waist. The room sways as he ends up going over the man's shoulder. "Hey!"  
  
The Renegade pats his butt. "Open your ship up."  
  
"Put me down! Bastard."  
  
The next touch to his ass is a pinch. "How many days you been up?"  
  
Drifter stops pushing against his back. Blood's rushing to his head. "Four," he mutters.  
  
"Shit."  
  
Drifter gives up. He draws out his Ghost behind the man's back, just long enough to transmat them up to his ship. The Renegade carries him down the Derelict's narrow corridors; Drifter shivers at the sudden chill, hears the crunch of the Renegade's boots on the snow before he's unceremoniously dumped onto his cot.  
  
"Ugh," he says, with great eloquence.  
  
The Renegade snorts, and Drifter feels him tugging at his boots.  
  
He forces his eyes open when the Renegade touches his waist. Goddamn, he's tired, but shit, if the guy really wants to go --  
  
The Renegade undoes Drifter's belt, takes the Trust from his waist and sets it on the table, folds up the leather and sets it on the floor by Drifter's boots. A tug on his wrist then. "Sit up for me," the Renegade says.  
  
Drifter almost argues for the sake of it, but his brain stalls; he'd been half asleep the moment he hit the mattress. He pushes himself up on his elbows, lets the Renegade pull him the rest of the way up by his arms, dozes off against his shoulder while the man pulls off his robes.  
  
"You want bedclothes?" the Renegade asks. "Drifter."  
  
Drifter jolts awake. The Renegade's thumb smooths over his wrist, at his pulse.  
  
"Nah," Drifter rasps. "Nah."  
  
The Renegade unzips the sleeping bag on the bed and nudges Drifter into it. Drifter's eyes are shut by time his head hits the pillow. He feels the Renegade tug his headband off, smooth his hair back, and zip his sleeping bag up.  
  
Drifter wakes after a straight 30 hours of sleep and finds a glass of water on his table.


	6. He Loves Me Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanahaki AU.

The first flowers bloom after Hope leaves, because of course they do. Shin has always been bad with goodbyes. 

Vale catches Hope leaving in the night; he’s not surprised by it, and only feels disappointment in the most selfish manner. The sensible bit of him is a little glad to find Hope running scared from their group, a little glad that Hope isn’t any more satisfied with the Dark than he is the Light. 

Hope looks caught with his things gathered up in his arms, but Vale doesn’t stop him. Instead, he gives Hope a little extra fuel, some spare rations, and sends him on his way. And as Hope’s ship becomes little more than a floating speck amongst the stars, Vale coughs it up. 

Jaren’s Ghost surfaces to scan the petals, solemn and unsurprised. “It’s gladiolus,” it tells him. “In the Golden Age, they represented infatuation. It should go away on its own soon.”

Vale looks at the bright red petals he’d spat into his palm. Infatuation. He has felt that before in brief spurts, but it had never been enough to grow flowers in his lungs, always satisfied by a romp in a hotel room, or a bedroll, or a cot on a ship. He thinks Hope might be the first man he’s ever wanted that managed to slip away from him. 

Jaren’s Ghost can’t heal him of this. The flowers do not grow terribly serious, but they never go away, not entirely.

* * *

The Renegade is doomed from the moment of his creation. He thinks the whole thing sounds like something out of a romance novel. Shin has always been a bit of a romantic.

The Drifter doesn’t give him a name, and that’s fine. He doesn’t go by Dredgen anymore at least, which the Renegade had feared, and whatever name he might’ve given likely would’ve been a lie, anyway. There are new scars on his cheeks that make him look ruggedly handsome, and his blue eyes carry some manic look that sends little thrills down the Renegade’s spine. He’s thicker than he was before but thinner than he should be, and somehow more daring and more terrified all at once. The Renegade can see the fear in the minute ways Drifter moves, the way his hands shake when he’s nervous and his gaze flicks towards every little sound, the way his natural charm has grown forceful, the way he goes deathly still at night.

Drifter smiles and calls him ‘brother’, and the Renegade knows he doesn’t mean it, not in any way that matters. But eventually, after Drifter takes him aside to show him extra-terrestrial wonders, after Drifter roasts their dinner over a fire, after he gets the Renegade out of his armor and into that tiny crate he calls a room — 

The Renegade teaches himself a trick. He keeps his body temperature high so the petals burn away in his lungs; sometimes, when he breathes, he can taste ash. 

When he can’t help but cough up a nearly full flower head, Jaren’s Ghost tells him it’s a pink camellia, for longing. The petals are wide and long and sit heavy on his tongue. The ash in his throat starts to choke him just as badly, so the Renegade lets them come up. 

Drifter starts making plans for a weapon to kill Shin Malphur, and the Renegade hacks up petals while standing over Drifter’s worktable. 

“Ought to have that looked at, brother,” Drifter says quietly, and the Renegade can’t get a read on his expression.

* * *

The flowers get worse in intervals and fade whenever Shin becomes preoccupied with something else for a long while, but Shin has always been bad at prolonging the inevitable. They grow back with a vengeance when he leaves that letter on Drifter’s worktable, and again when he kills the Shadows hiding above the Salt Mines, knowing he’s broken Drifter’s trust (or what little of it he’s ever been afforded) a second time. 

And months later, when he is by some miracle allowed into Drifter’s bed again, he coughs up a primrose.

“Still?” Drifter asks. 

He sounds almost pitying. It stings Shin’s pride a little. He uncurls his fist to peek at the petals he’d coughed into his palm and purses his lips. They’re pretty, a deep, rich purple with a yellow center, and Shin can feel them crawling up his throat. 

Drifter watches him a moment before he looks away, like the petals are some private thing he wasn’t supposed to see. “Should go see a doctor,” he mutters. “Get rid of it at the root.”

“It’d just come back,” Shin mutters, leaning halfway off the cot to dump the petals into the trashcan by the table. In truth, he hasn’t ever really thought about removing them. What would be the point, with his heart settled the way it is?

Drifter goes quiet for so long that Shin thinks he’s fallen asleep, but after a moment, Drifter snags his wrist and pulls him back down to bed. They lay on their sides, facing each other, hands trapped between their bodies. 

“Could tell ‘em,” Drifter says.

Shin tenses up for a split second and prays it isn’t noticeable. There’s a half a missed beat before he murmurs, “They wouldn’t want me like that.”

Drifter hums thoughtfully. Shin can’t for the life of him understand why he’s interested. Has he been too obvious in his affection? Has Drifter figured him out? Panic blooms in his chest, or maybe flowers, or both, and the muscles of his stomach tighten as he tries to keep his breathing steady.

Drifter guesses, “It’s the Guardian, right?”

Shin bolts upright out of sheer astonishment. “What?”

Drifter glances up at him with a measured sort of look on his face. “The Warlock?” he presses. “God-killer and all that bullshit? Am I right?”

Shin lets out a laugh that’s two parts shock and one part nerves. “No,” he admits, and maybe he surprises himself with how freely he admits it.

Drifter looks surprised too. Shin wonders how long he’d been thinking about it. Maybe their Guardian had shown Drifter his letters? Maybe Drifter's taken some different meaning from all the guns Shin had given her? He ought to be glad for the misunderstanding. Instead, he feels almost sick to his stomach.

“Well,” Drifter says, then trails off. 

_ Stop thinking about it,  _ Shin wants to beg.  _ Leave it be. Let me keep this close to my chest where it belongs.  _ He hasn’t been kicked from the Derelict before morning in a long while, but he feels suddenly that he should go, that he ought to give himself a moment to hack up petals in peace. 

Drifter sits up. Shin waits for him to say something, to ask him some incriminating question or make an accusation, but Drifter just reaches out to turn Shin’s face for a kiss.

Shin lets a confused noise slip between their mouths before he melts into it. He tries to push his tongue into Drifter’s mouth and pauses when Drifter withdraws ever so slightly, then resumes a little slower, a little deeper. Shin opens his eyes enough to peer at him inquisitively through his lashes, thoughts interrupted when Drifter’s thumb smooths lightly over the line of his jaw. 

And something about this doesn’t feel right: this is the kind of kiss that Shin only gets once in a blue moon, the kind he gets when he’s riled up, or when Drifter is, because somewhere along the line they figured out that the best way to distract each other from thinking on something too hard was to — 

Shin lurches back, hands on Drifter’s bare chest to keep him away, then turns to cough so hard it feels like it rattles his ribcage. He feels it swell in his chest — not the flowers, but the thing they accompany — and is miserable over it. He coughs up two primroses and a few petals of a third. Drifter’s hand falls to his back, then away entirely.

“Who is it?” Drifter rasps. 

“Drifter,” Shin says, a plea, flowers crushed in his hand. 

They both go quiet. After a pause, Drifter lays back down. Shin hesitates; Drifter brushes shaking fingers over his hip. Shin glances back, then lets the flowers drop to the floor and lays down beside him.

When he wakes in the morning, his chest feels strangely light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gladiolus - strength, honor, infatuation  
> Pink Camellia - longing for you  
> Primrose - I can't live without you


	7. Just Wanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk.....idk....

During the Dawning, most Guardians are running high on Eva Levante’s happy juice. Drifter doesn’t know what’s in that shit, so he does alright with his own whiskey. He’s draining it in the Annex now, Gambit largely devoid of players while Guardians run willy nilly through some whack dolled-up version of the Infinite Forest.

And Shin Malphur shows up, because of course he does, and maybe Drifter’s too tipsy to use his brain, so he lets Shin into his new rental space and gives him a shot, and another, and another — 

Drifter can’t remember half of what they’d talked about while they emptied his bottle. Something something Gambit, something something Dredgens, something something Guardian — ah. 

Shin skirts around the edge of the little fold-up table Drifter’d set up in the corner and climbs into Drifter’s lap. The chair creaks under their weight, and Drifter nearly spills his drink, but...well. He supposes he should’ve expected this. 

Drifter sets his glass down in favor of grabbing Shin’s hips because fuck it, the gate’s locked, and if Shin wants to fuck right here then okay, wouldn’t be the first time they’d rolled around within earshot of every passing Guardian. Shin slides gloveless hands over Drifter’s chest, pinky fingers slipping beneath the edges of his robes like a damn tease. He swallows thickly, breath shallow like even Drifter’s clothed body is something worth reverence, the warmth of it ghosting over Drifter’s mouth. Shin nudges their foreheads together, their noses brushing, but he doesn’t press a kiss down.

Drifter waits, then waits a little longer. Shin’s fingers smooth over his collarbones. Impatient, Drifter rasps, “You gonna do somethin’?”

Shin makes some kind of high, distressed noise, like he doesn’t know what to do or where he wants to rest his hands. He settles on Drifter’s jaw, apparently, but even that is an almost delicate brush with his index finger. “I just…” he starts, accent a little thicker with the weight of whiskey, then exhales a long sigh. “Just wanna touch you a li’l,” he murmurs, and then does just that.

Drifter swallows, lifts his chin absentmindedly while Shin’s hands run careful along his throat, thumbs grazing along his earlobes while wandering fingers cup the back of his neck. A fleeting thought passes through Drifter’s mind out of habit, there and gone in an instant, that Shin is going to kill him with those quick, nimble hands. Maybe he would’ve kept thinking it, if Shin didn’t look near mesmerized.

“I just like —” Shin tries, then hesitates, brows knitting, eyes falling to Drifter’s mouth briefly before he glances up again, a pained look in his brown eyes beneath those goddamned pretty-boy lashes. Drifter realizes absently that he isn’t breathing. Shin drops his gaze again. “Just like holdin’ on to you sometimes,” he admits. “That ain’t...so bad, I think.” 

Ain’t so bad? Drifter can think of a million reasons why that’s bad, just...not right this moment. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. He shouldn’t have let Shin drink so much. They’re both fucking wasted and that’s the only reason why Shin’s clinging to him like a weepy kitten and why Drifter’s just sitting here letting him. Shin should’ve kissed him by now. They should be getting in each others pants by now. 

“Lemme just…” Shin whispers, nuzzles against Drifter’s temple, presses a kiss there.


	8. He Loves Me Not, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanahaki au, part 2.

Shin has always been bad at goodbyes. In this same vein, Shin has always been well acquainted with heartbreak. 

This doesn’t prepare him for the sight of Drifter coughing up begonia petals, bright pink and stark against the dark green of his open robes. Shin freezes, caught and stuck straddling Drifter’s thighs, hands withdrawing abruptly from beneath Drifter’s undershirt. It feels a little like getting shot. It feels like being punched in the mouth. He thinks about how Drifter asked if he was in love with the Guardian, and he thinks about how Drifter must know Shin’s flowers are for him, and he feels like someone has wrapped the roots of his primroses around his heart like a noose.

Drifter’s gone stock-still, mouth open and no small amount of horror written on his face. He’s pale as a sheet, brows knitted and eyes wide. His hands shake, and one of the petals fall from his palm.

“Drifter,” Shin says, pleading. He doesn’t really know what he wants to ask for. Any thought he starts forming is selfish. He wonders how long the flowers have been growing in Drifter’s lungs. He wonders how long — 

Drifter crushes the petals in his fist. Shin gets off of his lap and settles awkwardly at the edge of the bed. He turns to ask a question, then stops short. A mortified flush has crept over Drifter’s face, and Shin looks away as if he could pretend he didn’t see it or the flowers.

* * *

Shin doesn’t return to the Derelict for a little over a week after that. And it's hard because he is a fool, and he has somehow learned to start missing Drifter’s touch after a few days of absence. He spends time agonizing over whether or not Drifter has confronted the object of his affection, about whether or not he’ll be sent away if he tries to return to Drifter’s bed. He wonders, in the event that the first answer is no, if he'll be welcomed back. Maybe Drifter won’t want to kiss him while they are both choking on flowers. 

The primroses flourish in Shin’s chest, thick as brambles.

In the end, he wrangles his nerves enough to send a transmat request. After a long, terrible three minutes, it’s accepted.

Shin materializes in Drifter’s little crate of a living space and readies himself for an awkward conversation, only to find the crate empty. Distantly, he can hear Drifter’s voice excitedly making calls; he’s in the middle of a Gambit match, then. Shin, admittedly, feels relieved.

He makes his way to the transmat stage, finds Drifter watching the two ongoing battles on the Derelict’s mismatched, cobbled-together screens while his Ghost keeps score for him.

“Match looks like it’s going well,” Shin calls, joining him on the catwalk.

Drifter glances at him. Shin meets his eyes. After a moment, Drifter turns back to the screens, cheeks flushed faintly pink. “So far,” he says agreeably. “Alpha Collector’s pushing it. He’s gotten a giant in once already, but…” he motions to his Ghost. Shin follows his gaze and sees the Beta team is only four motes from an invasion, and they’re all carrying some. Portal will open soon.

Shin makes an acknowledging sound and leans over the railing at Drifter’s side to watch the match. He feels Drifter’s eyes on him again, wonders if Drifter is really going to bring up the flowers during a match...or if he will at all.

Drifter suddenly chokes and coughs into his palm, the long, painful sort of cough that feels like sandpaper — or flowers — in the back of the throat. Shin looks up in time to see him spit out a small but full flower head, a wiry, tapered little thing with purple petals and a pale center.

_ Morning glory, _ Shin registers miserably, and straightens to place a worried hand on Drifter’s back while he coughs up another.

Team Beta banks and invades. Sirens go off, but no announcement is made.

They don't talk about it.

* * *

Shin, over time, has come to realize that for all of Drifter’s preaching, he feels things rather deeply. Somewhere in between finding Hope fleeing in the night and discovering that Drifter’s hands shake when he’s nervous, Shin had simply come to assume that the default emotion, underneath all the charm and sly fury at the world, was fear. And it is precisely this reason why he only ever wondered how forcefully Drifter might love in passing fantasies. It had never seemed to be a real danger before. 

The Annex is largely empty. Shin sees a Guardian peek past Drifter’s gate for the barest moment before abruptly turning on their heel to head up the stairs. Shin stares after them, half in curiosity and half in suspicion, then catches the distant but distinct sound of someone throwing up.

Shin rushes through the gate and finds Drifter sitting against the rails, one of the pots he keeps on the table tucked between his knees and jade coins scattered on the floor. There are petals among them too, and whole flower heads of gardenia, mangled and crushed and stomped on.

Shin drops to his knees beside him without thinking too long on how well-received it might be. “Drifter,” he says, and maybe if he had time to think about it, the worry in his own voice might hurt. 

Drifter’s head shoots up. He only has a moment to give Shin a horrified look before the muscles of his throat jump, and he has to drop his head back to the pot. Shin watches in stunned silence as flowers gush from his mouth, creamy white and spit-slick. The pot is nearly full. Shin’s never seen so many come out of a person all at once.

He manages, “How long you been hiding this?”

Drifter glares up at him before he heaves again, a visible shudder running down his spine. There’s a lull then, and in the brief moment of reprieve, he braces his arm on the edge of the pot and rests his head there. “…Ain’t…” he mumbles, near unintelligible.

“What?”

“I ain’t been,” Drifter repeats louder, irritated. He turns his head just enough to look at Shin with one eye, though he drops his gaze almost immediately after. “First time was that time with you.”

Shin thinks of begonia petals. He tries to understand how Drifter’s flowers could have gotten so bad so quickly. He tries to understand why he’d let it choke him so much in the first place. 

He’s afraid to touch him. His hands are already out, hovering, but it doesn’t feel like his place. “This’ll kill you,” he rasps. “If you don’t tell ‘em.”

Drifter snorts. 

“It doesn’t ꟷ” Shin pauses, drops his hands and wrangles the quiver out of his voice, swallows and starts again, quieter. “It doesn’t go away when your Ghost brings you back. It’ll still be there. You can’t just…you’re gonna have to tell ‘em.”

Drifter lets out a rough laugh. “No,” he says, blunt and no nonsense. He makes a low noise in his throat, like more flowers might come up, then exhales slow and closes his eyes, brows knitted. 

_ Stubborn!  _ Shin thinks in a little swell of annoyance. “Then you gotta see a doctor ꟷ”

Drifter lifts his head again. “I ain’t letting somebody cut me open,” he snaps. 

“This is gonna kill you!” Shin says insistently, fists tight in his lap. “Over and over! You really wanna die like this when you could just tell ‘em and move on from it? When you’ve got a chance to be happy for it?”

Drifter shoots him another dirty look and hangs his head over the pot again. He breathes in measures. 

Shin’s throat feels thick. “You afraid they’ll reject you?” he asks, a near whisper. He almost checks his ears for blood. “Or you afraid they won’t?”

Drifter doesn’t answer, but his fingers tighten on the pot. Shin hesitates, then reaches out to brush his knuckles against Drifter’s arm. 

Drifter chokes up another flower. Shin snatches his hand back. 

“...Who is it?” he asks. A tremor. 

Drifter doesn’t answer. He’s shaking. 

There’s a long, terrible pause. Shin scoots a little closer and lays his head against Drifter’s shoulder. Something sits odd in his chest, growing ever lighter.

After another slow moment, Drifter shifts enough to rest his head against Shin's. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Begonias — fear
> 
> Morning glory — love in vain
> 
> Gardenia — secret love


	9. Sunflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crash at my place, baby, you're a wreck ♪ ☆ﾟ*♫･｡･*:♪’☆♬

Shin’s due back any day now. 

Not that Shin told Drifter where he was going or how long he’d be gone or any shit like that. It’s just…Drifter gets some kinda _inkling,_ is all. Maybe spending too much time around the bastard has given Drifter some kinda Righteous Prick Radar (patent pending) or something. He gets that inkling, and seems like Shin always shows up not too long after. 

So he’s due back any day now, now that Drifter’s gotten to thinking on him. 

And lo and behold, Shin comes around when the Tower is buzzing — not the Annex, no, but the Bazaar, the Courtyard. It’s about that time of year when it gets a little chilly out and then bitterly cold and all the holidays start running together. Drifter doesn’t really care for it; it distracts his Guardians from Gambit, mostly, but also because he can remember the lost just fine without all the hullabaloo. But most of the Tower is bustling, and the Annex is empty, and Shin shows up because he’s an opportunist, because of course he does. 

Drifter is pleased by it — not the part where Shin shows up, but the part about his inkling being right. He can hear the clink of Shin’s spurs against the stairs echoing in the long hallway well before he arrives, his gait steady and purposeful. Bastard doesn’t even use spurs the way they’re supposed to be used, doesn’t even wear them in the field. Drifter doesn’t know _why_ he’s taken to wearing them whenever he comes sniffing around.

The spurs stop jingling in the doorway. Drifter’s trying to figure out how to cram one of Banshee’s new weirdass mods into a Gambit armor set, but he guesses a break couldn’t hurt, if only so he can stop pinching his fingers between metal and leather.

Shin raps a knuckle against the gate. Drifter glances up, playing at just noticing him (a ruse, and they both know it) and immediately snorts a laugh of surprise. “Can I help you with somethin’?” he asks. 

Shin’s face is half obscured by fat sunflower tops, the stems near long enough to hit his knees and stray petals falling around his boots when he tries to peek around them. “Uh,” he starts, arms tightening around the bundle a little bit. He looks awkward…not a first, but a rarity. “These are for you,” he finishes after a pause, cheeks going pink.

The amusement falls from Drifter’s face like a stone. His thoughts must be obvious, because that faint pink on Shin’s face bursts into a brusque red. “I meant—!” Shin blurts, then clears his throat. “Eva Levante's decorating. For the festival. Wants all the vendors around the Tower to dress their place up with these. Guess that includes you, now.”

That explains all the fuss upstairs, then (and the unusual lack of traffic here). Drifter eyes the flowers a moment before glancing back up at Shin. “Uh huh,” he says, wry. 

Shin tenses up a little, not unlike a spooked kitten. “Figured I’d save her the trouble of walking down all those stairs,” he mutters, avoiding Drifter’s gaze. 

“Uh huh,” Drifter repeats, because he has a distinct feeling that Eva never intended to walk down those stairs in the first place. He raises an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the worktable. “Sunflowers?” 

Somehow, Shin’s blush gets even darker. Drifter’s surprised there’s any blood left in the rest of him. “I didn’t pick ‘em!”  Shin objects, visibly flustered. “I — they’re all over the Tower. Whole plaza’s covered. And there’s more kinds than these.” 

If the amusement creeps back into Drifter’s voice, it’s not anything done on purpose. “Uh huh,” he says a third time, pushing off the table before he beckons Shin closer. 

The chime of Shin’s spurs is slow this time. He’s still avoiding eye contact where he can. It’s not like him to be shy, so it’s got something to do with the flowers, probably, or rather with the act of presenting them. Drifter decides he won’t think on it harder than that; sounds like a Shin problem, if you ask him.

“Here,” he says, opening his arms to take the flowers. Shin finally looks at him then, just as their arms slide together and Drifter’s hands brush his chestplate. He keeps stock-still, like the flowers might combust if he moves wrong, only dropping his arms once Drifter steps away to lay the flowers across his table. 

Drifter picks one up by the stem and turns it in his fingers, watching the vibrant petals catch the Annex’s poor light. They’re pretty, he’ll admit that, and he glances up towards the top of the bank, considering. 

Shin is still standing there when he glances back, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with himself while he stares at Drifter’s hands. 

“Well?” Drifter says. 

Shin meets his eyes sharply. “Huh?” 

“The others?” Drifter prompts.

Shin’s brows go up, a kinder red blooming over his face as it dawns on him that he’s being invited. “Oh,” he says, then, with a little hop-spin on his heel, “I’ll get them.” 

He runs off. Drifter watches him go and snorts again when he’s out of earshot. It takes a lot to fluster the Man with the Golden Gun. He supposes if anyone could make Shin Malphur feel like he was floundering, it’d be Eva goddamn Levante. 

He spins the sunflower in his fingers again. _Pretty,_ he muses, and sets aside the nicer ones to keep on his table. 


End file.
